


In the Nets

by kutubiyya



Series: Snapshots [3]
Category: Cricket RPF
Genre: M/M, Please Don't Hate Me, sort of an AU in which Swanderson isn't a thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-26
Updated: 2014-09-26
Packaged: 2018-02-18 20:50:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2361767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kutubiyya/pseuds/kutubiyya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Swanny's meddling puts both Jimmy and Ali in awkward positions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Nets

Jimmy is going to kill Swanny. He’s going to absolutely murder him.

Standing in the nets opposite a bowling machine, wishing he’d worn more layers against the blustery afternoon – pads offer some insulation, but a chilly wind is finding _all_ the gaps – Jimmy bends to take guard, and tries not to feel self-conscious under the gaze of the dark-haired man down the far end.

(Easier thought than done.)

Feet planted square on the ground, one arm groping for the machine’s trigger, the other hugging his midsection, Alastair Cook is watching him with an intense (disconcerting) thoughtfulness.

Ali. His new ‘batting mentor’. He really is going to kill Swanny.

The latest initiative – pairing up tailenders with proper batsmen for regular chats and some informal coaching – was introduced at a recent team meeting. And Graeme (helpful fucking interfering fucking Swanny) immediately piped up—

_Ball!_

Jimmy reacts too late, swinging and missing and cringing at the clatter of the plastic stumps.

Ali chews a thumbnail, and doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to. Jimmy kicks the ball away and sets to again.

Bloody Graeme. They haven’t talked again, since that night in Melbourne, about him and Ali. Jimmy should’ve known better than to think he’d really dropped it, though, as the team meeting proved. Swanny mostly kept a straight face while brightly suggesting that Strauss should matchmake him and Ali, but there was a mischievous glint in Swanny’s eye and he actually used the word _matchmake_ , so. Everyone else laughed, Jimmy felt himself blushing furiously, and even Ali—

The ball doesn’t actually hit the wicket this time, at least, but it’s rebounding gently off the back net before Jimmy has even taken a stroke. His closes his eyes.

“Okay,” calls Ali, sounding uncertain. “Again?”

Jimmy nods, looking only at the machine.

In the meeting, he remembers, Ali looked worried. Stricken, even. Which, he has to admit, stung. On his way out of the room at the end, Jimmy passed him, and without slowing, muttered, “I’ll try not to embarrass you too much, eh?” And left before Ali could reply.

So things weren’t awkward _at all_ when they turned up for their first date this morning.

Bloody Swanny. He’ll strangle him. He will.

The third ball, Jimmy sees coming, but he gets his feet in a tangle and can’t do much about it when the ball thuds low into his left pad.

With a yell of frustration, Jimmy swings his bat against the netting, but that’s rubbish because it gives far too easily, so he slams the bat into the ground instead. (Better. Satisfying jar up his arms, dent in the ground. He does it again.)

“Jimmy.”

He starts to see Ali so abruptly and unexpectedly close. Something flashes across Ali’s expression – he looks a bit hurt, Jimmy thinks, and although he can’t guess why, he says quickly, “Sorry. Crept up on me.”

“You’re distracted—”

“You could say that.” Jimmy can’t keep an ironic half-smile from his face.

Ali’s answering smile is faltering. “Well, we can talk about that. Tricks to clear your mind for long stays at the crease.”

Jimmy shrugs and looked away, starts bouncing the toe of his bat against his heel. “Not really my scene. Nightwatchman and all that.”

There’s a strained pause. “What about Cardiff? You were great that day.”

Jimmy bites back a retort, wondering why he’s being such a dick. After all, it’s Swanny he’s pissed off with, not Ali. And whatever happened (or didn’t happen) in Australia, he and Ali have been friends for years. Ever since their first, unexpected England Test call-up, since they flew through a day and a night and another day together – the two of them and Owais Shah – from the Academy tour of the West Indies to join the team in India.

Ali was all nose and teeth back then, he remembers, and not someone he knew well at all. But up close for the first time, there was something about him: disarming directness, infectious smile. Both of which he unleashed almost as soon as they sat down, opposite each other in business class on the flight out of Antigua.

(He started with the directness; the smile came later.)

 _The last time we spoke_ , he said, _you called me a cunt_.

Just that: no warning, no build up.

In truth, he didn’t deserve either. Jimmy cringed then, and cringes even now at the memory. The last time they’d spoken, before that flight? He’d been bowling at Ali in a county match, had decided this lad was probably full of himself (scoring a double century for Essex against the Aussies on a tour match would do that to you, right?). Had laid into him quite strongly.

Confronted, cornered: Jimmy flushed, sweated, and wanted (briefly) to be anywhere but there. He wondered if he could persuade Owais to swap seats.

At the time, he was surprised by the strength of his gut reaction, by his immediate embarrassed need to make things right with a guy he didn’t know. (Looking back, now, it’s hard not to see some foreshadowing of what was to come.)

Abashed, he mumbled an apology into the hum and half-light of the aeroplane cabin: _that’s how I play, not who I am_. Got the smile in response.

And it was, against the odds, the start of a beautiful friendship. One which he’s on a fair course to wreck, if he’s not careful.

He drags himself back to the present with an effort.

“Sorry,” he says again, still not looking up. “Not a great mood. Not your fault. Go on.”

The pause this time is strained in a different way.

“How about—” Ali stops, clears his throat. “Let’s take a look at your footwork, and then we’ll call it a day. Okay?”

Jimmy nods mutely. Ali gives him some suggestions, then goes back to the machine to send down some more deliveries. These go better – okay, so he edges one for a caught behind, but the rest he blocks fairly successfully. Then the last ball bounces low, and he tries for a reverse sweep. Not that successfully.

Ali comes striding back down the net, brisk. “That last one… Show me how you go into the stroke.” Jimmy does as he’s told, and holds the pose.

“Okay…”

Jimmy looks up from the crouching stretch. Ali seems lost in thought, studying Jimmy’s left leg through narrowed eyes, hands on hips. Jimmy takes the offered chance to study him: trim waist, muscular shoulders, angular stubble-dusted jaw. He’s biting his lower lip at one side in a way that makes Jimmy want to pull him to the floor right then and there.

(He closes his eyes again. _Steady_.)

Ali’s giving him instructions and he isn’t even listening properly. He tries to concentrate, to work out what he’s supposed to do, but he makes such a confused mess of it that Ali laughs and says, “Here, I’ll show you.”

Before Jimmy can do or say anything else, Ali is kneeling beside him, talking rapidly about weight distribution and balance. At first he just gestures as he speaks, but as he gets more caught up in his explanation (Jimmy loses his heart, just a little bit, to the animation in Ali’s voice and dark eyes, to the completely unselfconscious joy that shines from him at just _talking_ about batting), he switches tactics.

Touch: one hand resting lightly on Jimmy’s calf, the other slotting into the tight space between pad and knee. Now Ali is drawing out a map of his meaning with fingertips that glide up and down Jimmy’s legs, punctuating his points with short, sharp squeezes to the relevant muscles.

It’d be a good way to really fix his audience’s attention, if his audience were anyone other than Jimmy. All Jimmy can really do, though, is swallow, give thanks for the little box in his underwear, concentrate on breathing evenly, and periodically mumble something that might be agreement. Suddenly the day doesn’t seem so very cold, after all.

At length, Ali draws back, gets to his feet, and says, “Right, show me that – take guard again, then play the stroke.”

Jimmy gathers his breath, and gingerly tries to use his bat to lever himself into up an upright position. His legs promptly give way, sending him stumbling right into Ali, who, with a slip catcher’s reflexes, grabs him round the waist with both hands, steadying him.

Jimmy almost chokes on a laugh, drops his bat, and takes hold of Ali’s arms for support – though right now he’d give quite a lot to be left to fall on the ground, where maybe he could curl up and pretend none of this is happening.

 _Smooth_ , remarks a part of his brain apparently less closely linked to his cock than the rest of it. (It’s got Swanny’s voice. Obviously.)

 _Did I mention I’m going to kill you?_ he tells it.

Brain-Swanny doesn’t dignify that one with a response.

\--

Alastair is alarmed.

“Are you okay? Jimmy?” Has he just broken England’s star seamer? Straussy’ll be livid. “Jimmy, talk to me.”

The other man nods. “Just… bit wobbly. Holding the pose too long.” He shifts one hand to Ali’s shoulder, uses it to bear his weight while his free hand reaches up to fiddle with his helmet.

The man even makes helmet hair look good, Alastair reflects ruefully, as Jimmy’s pink-cheeked face emerges, squinting at the hazy sky. While he has chance, Alastair revels in the feel of Jimmy’s taut waist, tries not to think about how close his hands are to the hips that have been occupying a few of his dreams lately.

The arm flung across his shoulders reminds him abruptly of the not-kiss at the MCG and he feels himself flush, looking away, guiltily, to scan the nets to check whether anyone can see them. Like Swanny, for example.

 _It’s all completely innocent_ , he thought-broadcasts at anyone who might be watching. _Training_.

_I wouldn’t touch your boyfriend, I promise. Except for the part where I currently am. Touching him. Bugger._

This never used to be a problem. He’s always been so good at keeping his feelings below the radar, at falling for people who would never notice him that way in a million years. Never any risk of being found out. Never any risk of hurting anyone.

He’s tried to stop thinking about Jimmy. He really has. He’s steeled himself to see this mentoring thing as a test of his character and resolve and restraint, not just an excuse to spend time with Jimmy, one on one.

But right now he’s worried for completely different reasons.

“Can you stand okay?” He feels rather than sees Jimmy nod, and quickly lets go.

Jimmy gives a chuckle as he takes off his gloves. “This batting thing’s harder than it looks.”

“Apparently so. We can stop, if you want.”

Jimmy rotates his neck, and runs a hand through his hair. He still doesn’t look to be standing entirely comfortably. Alastair prays it isn’t a hamstring problem.

“Are you sure you’re all right? Do you need to stretch out your thigh?”

Jimmy coughs. “Fine.”

“But I can—”

“Honestly, fine.” Abruptly, Jimmy thrusts the helmet at him. “Tell you what, Cooky. I’ve showed you mine, time for you to show me yours. Go on, reverse sweep.”

Alastair is left staring at the helmet in his hands as Jimmy heads stiffly towards the top of the net.

“Wait!” he says, bundling the helmet on. “I’m not padded up. I need some protection from your balls…” He trails off as he catches up with his accidental innuendo.

Jimmy is way ahead of him, already leaning on the bowling machine and laughing. Alastair is torn between being affronted – it wasn’t _that_ funny – and being relieved that Jimmy seems to be recovering. “You know what I mean…”

“No problem,” the other man says, bending down to pluck a ball from the ground. “How about a nice, gentle underarm?”

Matching grins across the net. It takes Jimmy a couple of attempts to pitch in the right area, but when he does, Alastair slides forward into the sweep position, then holds it – front leg bent beyond ninety degrees, back leg stretched out behind, low to the ground – while Jimmy saunters back.

The bowler doesn’t stop, as he expects; instead he circles Alastair, slowly, in a way that makes him think of the word _prowl_.

Alastair’s throat tightens and he fights the urge to turn his head to follow Jimmy’s progress, closing his eyes instead and feeling the skin at the small of his back prickle.

He flexes his fingers on the bat handle, realises his hands are damp with sweat. He closes his eyes.

He’s never felt so exposed.

Just the thought of it – of himself, helplessly on display to the other man’s gaze – is sending little shockwaves through him. He’s mortified to feel himself growing hard; and given how tightly the sweep stance is stretching his tracksuit, it won’t be long, he knows, before it’s unignorably obvious.

Which sets up a whole feedback loop of arousal. Willpower, and guilt, are receding memories.

 _Well_ , he thinks, _my character’s been tested. Just like that_.

All Jimmy has to do is ask. Or take.

Alastair wets his lips, and opens his eyes to see Jimmy in front of him again, holding out an arm.

“Right, had a good look. Think I see what I need to do in future.”

Alastair blinks. If this were a film, he decided – one of those embarrassment-trainwreck comedies Swanny’s so fond of, probably – there’d be a sound effect of screeching brakes right about now.

“I, er… good.”

He grabs the offered forearm, does his best to hold the bat somewhere near his groin and not gasp or wince or generally embarrass himself any further as he’s pulled upright.

“Okay then,” he says briskly. “Well. See you soon.”

Jimmy looks puzzled. “Not coming back to the pavilion?”

“No, I… I’m going to just collect up the equipment here. Better not leave it in a mess.”

“Right. Well, I can help—”

“No,” Alastair cuts in quickly, too quickly, “that’s fine. I can do it!”

Jimmy shrugs, and leaves without another word. Alastair curses himself a bit for that, but mostly he’s too busy leaning on his bat and trying out several ways of standing before he finds the least uncomfortable one.

He lifts his face to the heavens, and gives a slightly melodramatic sigh.

“Well,” he says to the clouds, “ _that_ went well.”

Then he starts, helplessly, to laugh.

**Author's Note:**

> Details on Cook and Anderson's first proper meeting are taken from the latter's autobiography, because I am obsessive.
> 
> Creativity with canon: I'm pretty sure the batting mentoring thing actually started some way before 2011.


End file.
